


Streetlights

by shangrilove



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pretty Woman Fusion, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Being Lost, Drama, FC Chelsea, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:43:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shangrilove/pseuds/shangrilove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Chelsea flies Fernando to London, he thought he'd be picking up a huge signing bonus, not a scruffy hooker with eyes as blue as the shirt he'll soon be wearing.</p>
<p>Aka, the Pretty Woman!Au in which it is Juan is just a little bit lost, and Fernando doesn't know what he's doing either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Streetlights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [torres](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torres/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY to beloved Mika/[](http://jumping-down.livejournal.com/profile)[ **jumping_down**](http://jumping-down.livejournal.com/)! This is for you, sorry it's a bit late, but as you said, "the world needs more Juanando" and I totally agree. I tried to get the whole fic done... but I had to go out of town and it wasn't meant to be. Alas, at least I can hold the rest hostage until you decide to continue Collision Course with Juan present! Also all my love and sharing tapas with my beta [Mara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mardemaravilla/pseuds/mardemaravilla), who came up with the wonderful title instead of the awfully cliched interim one I had.

 

 

They fly Fernando to London on a Thursday. Fly is an understatement; Chelsea sends a private jet with three airhostesses on board. They spend the entire flight complimenting his highlights (even though his roots are showing) and pouring shots of vodka that retail for four thousand euros a bottle. A gleaming original Rolls Royce with a chauffer picks him up at the airport and takes him to Cobham; he’s also told that the minibar is stocked with more vodka.

By the time Fernando gets there, he’s surprised there isn’t a red carpet leading into the building where he is to meet one of the richest men in the world.

If the show of extravagance was supposed to be welcoming, it doesn’t work, it only makes him apprehensive about the brave new world he’s about to step into.

Roman is an interesting fellow. He makes charming comments, compliments Fernando’s football career and professionalism. He’s surprised that an owner knows so much about football, about _his_ football and he can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to play under an owner who’s so passionate about the game.

He loves Átleti. He loves the club, the fans and the undying spirit that he will always come to associate with the red and white. But he’s exhausted too, tired of being the martyred poster boy, of being dragged into a club’s finger pointing over financial woes, of a board that doesn’t mind selling their captain for a good chunk of cash to fight over. Sometimes Fernando dreams of a thousand hands, grabbing his shirt, his skin, his heart, pulling until he comes apart like fireworks over the Cibeles. Some days he plays and it feels like there’s nothing left.

“Nice fellow, he really wants you.” Margarita tells him during a break in talks, his agent has already been negotiating on his behalf for three days. “And he seems like the type who usually gets what he wants.”

“I suppose so.” The truth is, Fernando isn’t quite sure this is actually happening. He would go back right now if Átletico says they’ve changed their mind, despite displaying Fernando like a piece of meat since transfer season started.

“This is a good thing Fernando.” His agent gives him a motherly smile. “Think of it as a new start. Let someone else take care of you for once.”

What really seals it is how happily Átletico accepts the fifty million pound transfer fee the two clubs hammer out. Fernando quickly agrees to a medical and another meeting to set personal terms. Every decision takes him another step further away from home and everything familiar.

~

Roman hosts a party that very night at one of his lavish mansions in the English countryside. Despite the fact that Fernando hasn’t signed to anything yet, the billionaire thinks everything is a foregone conclusion (it is). The rest of the team and various Chelsea higher-ups will be there; it’s his chance to make a good first impression before he steps onto the pitch with them.

Margarita makes him wear a tux, she knows he hates suits and would prefer to stick to training sweats. He scowls but puts it on, he’s never been to a party thrown by a billionaire before and doesn’t want to look like a fool. She ties a bowtie that’s tastefully blue, and reminds him that it wouldn’t hurt to start showing a little club loyalty, make them like him before he even slips on the shirt.

The party is hopping by the time they get there, however once they see Fernando, everything turns up another notch. Fernando loses his manager in the crowd of footballers and other employees telling him how happy they are that he’s theirs. He’s toasted and plied with more champagne than what’s allowed on his diet list in a month.

Fernando doesn’t do well in crowds like this, even though he should be used to being the center of attention by now. It’s just that everyone is talking to him, wants a bit of his attention, some acknowledgement from him. He understand most of it, the English rolling by too quickly to sort out in his mind. He just nods and agrees with whatever they are saying, satisfying them with his freckled smile.

After a couple more glasses and endless handshakes later Fernando finally slips away from his latest suitor, a Brazilian man with a mop of tangled curls who belongs more in a children’s show than a football field. The man, _call me David Luiz_ , Da-veed like how they say it in Spanish, has been trying to converse with him for twenty minutes in Portuguese, convinced that the two languages are similar enough for them to understand each other.

They don’t.

He has been informed that Roman has a fleet of cars and drivers to send guests home, but he passes. He just wants a moment to himself. Margarita lends him her keys while she stays on to _network_ , which in her world means have another glass of rosé while flirting with one of the assistant coaches. He gives her a grateful smile and a wink.

Driving in England is confusing. He keeps on forgetting to stick to the left side, unconsciously drifting into the incoming lane until he sees cars coming towards him, in which case he sharply banks back to the left. Fernando also realizes that the lanes are much narrower than in Spain, giving him a much smaller margin of error. Not to mention there are foxes dashing in front of his car as if they have a death wish.

He can see tomorrow’s headline already, _Chelsea’s new striker brutally runs over baby foxes._ From what he’s heard about Chelsea players, it wouldn’t even be the most ridiculous accusation.

It isn’t until Fernando reaches the London outskirts; he realizes he has no idea how to get to his hotel. He figures that the Ritz at Picadilly is rather hard to miss, and being this is _London_ , there’ll probably be lots of signs for the tourists.

He is mistaken, there are none.

After the fifth time he’s crossed over the Thames, he thinks it’s time to ask for some directions. Except now when he needs it, the streets are bare, framed by decaying buildings covered in graffiti. He weaves through a couple blocks until the streets are a bit livelier, full of people dressed in very little if at all and the signs flash XXX in neon.

Fernando’s stopped at a red light, he needs to get out of this area before someone realizes who he is and takes a picture, when a boy saunters over to his car. The _tap tap tap_ on the passenger window almost makes him release the brakes.

“Can I get a ride?” he says in a voice that should be too husky for his young age. The first thing Fernando sees are a pair of baby blue eyes, lined in black and glittery bits that shine sadly under the street lights. Fernando can’t understand what he’s saying, but the inviting body language makes it obvious.

“I am...” Fernando gestures helplessly at the street, he doesn’t know the words in English. “Dirección?”

“Español?” The boy cocks his head and replies in his mother tongue.

“Sí.” Fernando sighs in relief, finally someone who can help him. “Do you know how to get to Picadilly?”

“Sure I do.” The boy leans down, the top three buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, exposing the delicate arch of collarbones. “If you give me twenty quid.”

“You’re charging me for directions?” Fernando is in disbelief. To be honest, that amount of money means nothing to him, he can blow a thousand times that without batting an eye, but it’s the principle of things. People shouldn’t charge for directions. “You can’t do that!”

“Sure I can babe. It’s not me who’s lost.” The hooker throws in a wink; he knows he’s won.

“Fine, I’ll give you the money when we get there.” He gives in, partially out of desperation and also because this is the most interesting conversation he has had all day. “Hop in.”

The boy, no, probably young man (he can see curly facial hair that he could never grow) looks delighted at the offer and jumps in. “Wow, this is a really nice car, almost the same model that James Bond drives.”

Fernando tries to focus on the road, but when the younger man sprawls down, relaxing into the soft leather, he can’t help but notice the sharp hipbones exposed by the shirt riding up. “It’s not mine.” He says instinctively.

“Oh my god!” Juan startles. “Did you pick me up to be a drug mule? Is this a stolen car?”

“What?” Fernando doesn’t even know what that means. “No! I just need to get to my hotel!”

“Oh.” The other man relaxes again, fiddles with the controls for the air conditioning. “So where do you want to go?”

“The Ritz.” Fernando thinks this is probably a big mistake. Maybe he won’t even make it back to the hotel, instead be directed to some shady alleyway and offed with a switchblade. Chelsea’s new signing doesn’t even last till the first match.

“Oooh, fancy.” He looks impressed. “Make an U-turn then, we’re going in the wrong direction.”

“Thanks. I didn’t even realize I went past it.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

“What’s your name kid?”

“Johnny and I’m not a kid.” He says it the British way, _jon-ee_. “Unless that’s what the customer wants.”

Fernando tries not to imagine what the customer would want. “You’re over eighteen?” He asks in disbelief.

“I’m twenty!” Johnny sounds affronted. “What do I call you?”

He hesitates. “Call me Nando.” He doesn’t want to say Torres, because everyone knows the name on the back of his shirt, Fernando or Niño will probably give it away too. He doesn’t want Johnny to know, doesn’t want him bragging to the other rent boys on the corner how Fernando Torres picked him up in an Aston Martin. This is the only damage control he knows.

“Nando, like the peri-peri chicken place.”

Fernando nods even though he has no idea what peri-peri chicken is. “I’ve never had it.”

“You will, you can’t stay in London without trying Nando’s.”

“Oh yeah?” Fernando is intrigued. “Where else do you suggest.”

“Well you have to go around at least twice in the London Eye, one of them at night. It’s annoying when there’s a lot of tourists, but you look like the type of guy who can afford to book a whole capsule.”

He laughs, “I suppose so.”

“Go for a show at the London dungeon, gallows style humor is all the rage nowadays and the acting is quite good, none of that amateur stuff from a few years back.” Johnny also goes on to recommend the Tower Bridge from a boat and the Tower of London over Buckingham Palace. There’s a reverence in his voice when he speaks of London, he makes every destination sound like a place to be cherished.

“You should be a tour guide.” Fernando remarks, mentally storing all the advice for when he has free time.

“I could be. It doesn’t pay as well though.” Johnny smiles wryly. “Take the next right and your hotel will be at the end of the block.”

Sure enough, the well-lit façade of the Victorian-style grand hotel comes up. Fernando turns into the front entrance in relief. He takes out a twenty and hands it to Johnny. “Gracias, I wouldn’t have made it back without you.”

He’s about to say something else when he’s interrupted by the valet opening the door.

“Thanks.” Fernando slips another twenty and the car keys into the valet’s hand, hoping the employee won’t talk about the other passenger in the car.

Johnny steps out. “Well, I hope you enjoy your time in London.”

“Are you going back to…” Fernando gestures in the direction where they’ve just come from.

“Nah.” The other man tousles his hair a bit and pops another button on his shirt. “I think I’ll stay in this area a bit. Tourists usually tip better than regulars, plus I don’t need to cut a share to my pimp.”

“Okay.” Fernando frowns and turns to go in. “Goodbye then.” He takes a few steps but turns back to looks at the hooker. There’s a warm shower and clean bed waiting for him in a suite upstairs, but there’s just the feeling that it’s not enough, or too much.

Johnny is using the hotel windows to touch up on his eyeliner. His shirt is barely clinging on, revealing bits of pale flesh as it flaps in the wind.

“Do you…” Fernando’s mouth goes dry, he has no idea how to do this. “Do you want to come up?”

“That depends.” The look that Johnny gives him has a momentary flash of desperation. “Can you afford me?”

“I can.” He says firmly.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” The young man sidles up to him, all dark eyes and pouty lips. “You won’t regret it.”

~

As they walk in, Johnny looks at the opulence of the Ritz Carlton in awe, like when Fernando stepped into the Caledrón for the first time. He shivers, eyes bright. Fernando can’t tell if he’s cold or just excited, but still drapes his jacket over the kid. Because really, no matter what age Johnny says he is, he looks too much like the young boot boys Fernando is used to seeing in the locker room; the same wide-eyed glances and rush of wonder, he’s glad that Johnny can still look like that.

Johnny bounces into the elevator, brushing past a group of old men holding briefcases who turn and stare. Fernando is annoyed by their obvious lust, he jabs extra hard at the close doors button, hoping they don’t come on.

They don’t, Fernando and Johnny ride up to the penthouse in silence. The whole time Fernando is furiously questioning what the hell he’s thinking, taking a rent boy up to his suite.

~

“Do you want anything to eat?” Fernando offers. His parents raised him to be a good host, though they’d be scandalized by his choice of guest right now. “I can order room service.”

Johnny shrugs, “If you want.” He shrugs like he could care less, but Fernando can see the outlines of rib bones through the thin cotton shirt. He calls down to the kitchen and asks for a big pan of paella, it’s not on the menu but the head chef assures him it’ll be there within the hour.

He sets up the game console and leaves Johnny to his own devices. Fernando still has no idea what he’s going to do with a prostitute, thinks maybe he should call his agent and try to contain it before it becomes some scandal; this is the kind of thing that can end careers. Or maybe he can find a polite way of kicking Johnny out without causing a big stir.

In the end, he does neither. Instead, he pulls out the rudimentary contract from earlier today and decides to goes over some of the fine print terms and conditions. They’re still working on the personal terms, and nothing is settled yet. While it’s not as if Fernando doesn’t trust his agent, especially since Margarita is practically another mother to him, he wants to read over it himself. This way, if something goes wrong, the only person he can blame is himself.

He’s going over a particularly tricky section on image rights when the food arrives. Johnny pauses his game of FIFA and digs in. The pure joy of him digging into the paella settles some of the tension Fernando’s been building up since he met the boy.

“This is pretty good, for Valencia paella.” Johnny says, chewing on a piece of squid. “They should try adding cider though.”

“You’re from the Asturias?”

“I was.” He shoves a big forkful in his mouth and chews with his mouth closed.

Fernando gets the message and goes back to reading.

~

It’s getting quite late, but Fernando’s terrified of putting his papers down and actually figuring out what to do with Johnny, who is still battling it out on the game console. He has never hired a prostitute before; in fact he’s never even thought about it.

Fernando’s never had any problem with finding a partner, regardless of sex.

Besides, there are always teammates who don’t mind lending a hand or willing to have a fling, in the team shower or late at night during concentración. He thinks back to a certain long-haired teammate from Sevilla and the sneaking around they did while on National Team duty.

It’s not even the fact that Johnny’s a complete stranger, it’s more the fact that he’s being paid for sex. That thought gives him an uncomfortable feeling in his gut. He’s never done something like this before, and he’d like to think he’s a fairly moral person. He pays his taxes, helps elderly people cross the street, always signs things for kids no matter how tired he is.

He wonders if this one act will send him to hell. Is it still a sin if he never had any thoughts of actually sleeping with the guy? Thinking about the situation he got himself into makes his head hurt, so he just his eyes firmly glued to the pages of legal jargon. Hopefully Johnny will tire himself out and fall asleep or something. He’ll just pay the kid and send him off in the morning.

~

“So, is it true that Chelsea are going to pay fifty million pounds for you?” He says it so casually, but Fernando jumps and scatters pages of his contract all over the floor. He didn’t even notice that the sounds from the TV have stopped, and Johnny has snuck up behind him to look over his shoulder. They’re so close that the boy’s stubble lightly tickles the back of his ears.

“You know who I am?” He didn’t like the situation before, but that was nothing compared to the fear induced adrenaline making his heart pound like he’s playing in a Champions League final.

“You’re el Niño.” Johnny scoffs, “there is no one, Spanish or English who _wouldn’t_ recognizes you.”

“Are you-” his mouth is dry and even in Spanish, he has trouble finding the words.

“Don’t worry.” He appraises the footballer. “I can be discreet, it’s part of my profession.”

“I’m not.” Fernando says quickly. “I don’t need a hooker.”

The latter looks quite insulted, “Why the hell did you hire me then?”

“I don’t know.” He admits.

“Look Torres,” He says it the same way Real Madrid defenders do when he’s trying to score on them. “If you think I’m some kind of charity project or something, I’m _not._ If you don’t want me then I’m going to go back to work, actual work and not just sitting here playing video games while you ignore me for paperwork.”

“I’m sorry.” Fernando doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, but Johnny sounds genuinely upset. “I’m just grateful you got me back here.” He really should’ve thought this through, taking the boy in from the streets, and then what? Let him stay in a fancy hotel room before kicking him out the next morning?

“You already paid me for the directions.” Johnny points out. “And you will pay me for the night right?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Well I’ve never had a customer who’s been so difficult before, you haven’t even asked me for anything.”

Fernando thinks, _I’m not your customer_ , except he realizes he is considering he’s already paid the kid, and will be paying more later. “We could play some FIFA?”

The hooker shots him an incredulous look.

“I never have anyone to practice with.” Fernando says with a sheepish face. “My teammates always kick my ass when we play.”

Johnny doesn’t believe this is happening, but hands Fernando a controller anyways. “Fine, but I’m playing Real Madrid.” He thinks is this probably the most surreal night he’ll ever have, at least it’ll be an interesting story for his roommates later.

“That’s fine.” Fernando smiles, his first genuine smile of the night, all dimples and freckles and crinkling of the eyes. It’s easy to see why the stadium always goes insane when he changes shirts after the game, even during away games. “We can have a proper derbi Madrileño .”

Johnny is fiercely competitive, scoring twice as many goals than the actually footballer. Fernando’s can’t help but enjoy it. He hasn’t realized how much he missed this, the easy camaraderie with normal people, with someone who’s not associated with football, someone he can just play a game and not have to analyze each move with. It’s so easy to forget that the boy sitting next to him is a hooker he picked up on a raunchy street corner.

He glances over, Johnny is staring at the eleven players in white with vicious intent, he bites down on his lower lip as he maneuvers his players. Fernando thinks this is how he should look, not that false leer when he was bent over at his side window earlier.

Later, when the kid looks like he passed out on the couch after an intense final (he won 5 games to 3), Fernando turns off the console and drapes a blanket over the exhausted kid.

“Thank you.” Johnny mumbles.

“Good night Johnny.”

Fernando’s undressed and in bed when he hears it, mumbled quietly in the darkness. “You can call me Juan.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Margarita Garay is actually Fernando's real life agent. He seems like the sweet type who would get a fierce woman, which is nice considering there aren't too many females working in the professional football world. Kudos.
> 
> 2\. Juan's English name directly translates into Johnny Kills. I'm not sure how many people reading this knew that though, I tried to make it fairly obvious it was Juan.
> 
> 3\. Sorry if I butchered parts of Pretty Woman, but artistic liberties were definitely taken advantage of here!


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